


It's Warm

by DaughteroftheCosmos



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person, Romance, Set Post-Canon, also lmk if any other tags would be useful!, i smiled writing this and i hope you smile reading it, lichrally just some soft vibes, pov wilde, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23795317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughteroftheCosmos/pseuds/DaughteroftheCosmos
Summary: It’s warm, which it hasn’t been in awhile. Sun-warm, not the gray-dark warm of a thick cloud cover. It smells nice, too. Like hickory smoke and thyme, rosemary, but gentle, carried on a breeze.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	It's Warm

It’s warm, which it hasn’t been in awhile. Sun-warm, not the gray-dark warm of a thick cloud cover. It smells nice, too. Like hickory smoke and thyme, rosemary, but gentle, carried on a breeze. You suppose he must be cooking something, something sharp and savory that will snap and melt on your tongue, but you don’t know near enough about the art to guess what just from the smell. You should. You’ve tasted enough foods, sampled enough delicacies that the scents should conjure in your mind a clear vision of what you’ll be tasting; you’ve just never been able to grasp it. It’s alright, though. He likes cooking. 

It’s almost too idyllic, really. You don’t want to be thinking like that, but it’s hard to avoid. Too many years of stormy seas for this sheltered calm you’ve found yourself in to seem anything but a fantasy, at times. Funny how brains work, isn’t it? How even a short span of tragedy can stretch for so long in our memories, while the restful times seem to last just for an instant? And it was no short tragedy you faced. It only makes sense, and you don’t begrudge yourself the right to feel angry. To feel cheated. To feel like this couldn’t possibly be real. You don’t begrudge yourself, you breathe. Just- in, out. It doesn’t always work. It’s not meant to; but for now, with the sweet smell of herbs on the breeze, with the rustle of grass in your ears, it’s enough. 

He doesn’t hide the sound of his footsteps as he approaches you. Neither of you like surprises. You know the click of his steps, though, the gentle whir his legs make as they work, but even so he lets the grass crinkle under his feet. You imagine that you can feel it in the ground where you lay, like his steps have the strength to shift the Earth; or like you’ll always know him, like you’ll always know where he is. Both are disgustingly romantic thoughts, but like the sharp ones you let yourself have them. You’ve been letting yourself have a lot of things, recently, and you must say you far prefer it to the alternative. 

“Food’s almost ready,” he says, matter-of-fact. You smile to show you’ve heard it, and then smile wider. You’re going to do something ridiculous, because you can. You reach your arms up in the air, unthinking, and mumble, “C’mere.” 

You imagine he must be blinking at you a bit nonplussed. He’s probably smiling at you very fondly. You can’t see it, as you still have your eyes closed, but both the nonplussed blink and the fond smile have become staples of his, so you can picture it with relative ease. He does chuckle, though, and that you can hear.

“Come where, exactly?” Don’t-” he says, cutting off the joke there was, to be fair, a non-zero chance of you making. Instead, though, you just wiggle your arms again, a sweet and frankly a bit childish motion, and simply repeat, “Here.” 

He sighs, this time, long-suffering and amused, and trudges the last few steps to be standing next to you. “Alright, I’m ‘here’,” he says, “And what is it I can do for you, Mr. Wilde?” 

  
  


You blink your eyes open just enough to catch a glimpse of him, his weathered, bearded face above you, looking down at you with laughter in his eyes. He has it braided, today, with beads you bought him the last time you went into town. They’re aquamarine and topaz, shining, frivolous and delicate, but he looks so lovely with them. He looks so lovely. 

You tug at his trousers, petulant and silly, and demand, “I did, in fact, mean  _ here,”  _ gesturing to your own chest with one arm while continuing to tug with the other. 

He kneels, then, before flopping down on top of you with an “oomph.” He tucks his face into your neck, and you feel his breath against your skin. “Food’s gonna burn,” he mumbles, and you feel the vibrations. 

You run your fingers through his hair; it’s soft, and smells of the lavender oil you gave him. You would give him everything, but he asks for so little. The sweetness in your chest when you can see him learning to love himself again, though. It sings brighter than any song you could ever conjure. He’s so lovely. 

“No it won’t,” you say, and you’ve never been more certain of anything in your life.

**Author's Note:**

> wilde server made angst and so i was inspired to make fluff. im going to count that as inspiration tho bc the angst was also Very Good, it just made me too sad asdjasldkl. comments and kudos always loved and appreciated <3


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